


Time Has Come (Way Down We Go)

by themillersdaughtersmistress



Series: took time (to let you know) [6]
Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Aftermath of Torture, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Background Wolfstar, Black Hermione Granger, Black family feels, Cedric Diggory Lives, Chaptered, F/M, Good Draco Malfoy, Good Narcissa Black Malfoy, LGBTQ Themes, M/M, Multi, Not Canon Compliant - Harry Potter and the Order of the Phoenix, Original Character(s), Original Character(s) of Color - Freeform, Plot, Sirius Black Lives, The Noble and Most Ancient House of Black, because fuck the ending of OotP directly in the ear, because we're doing a whole story instead of one shots now apparently, i have 9 chapters in the outline but we'll see where this goes
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-08-07
Updated: 2019-03-07
Packaged: 2019-06-23 09:39:06
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 10,290
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15603543
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/themillersdaughtersmistress/pseuds/themillersdaughtersmistress
Summary: Harry returns for his fifth year, and Draco slowly grows into the new path he's chosen in life. The fight against You-Know-Who is on, and the Order as well as Narcissa must find a way to fight him.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> As the tags say, this is going to be a much longer, multichaptered work. I tried to stay in the bounds of just one shots, but we're getting into super plotty territory, and I want to explore that in depth (thought I have a feeling y'all wouldn't really complain). Let's get into this!

_Green flashed in the corners of her eyes, and Narcissa knew she was dreaming again. She wished she didn’t know; it did nothing to stop the terror._

_Moonlight reflected off the tombs of the graveyard, and she felt sick. This was worse than she or Orvan had speculated. Peter Pettigrew—spineless Pettigrew, who didn’t have a single thought in his head that James Potter did not put there—was a Death Eater. He’d been a Death Eater for a long time, apparently, and how could she have not_ known _that. Pettigrew, who her cousin Sirius Black was supposed to have killed. Siri, the bullheaded traitor who she’d been forbidden from speaking to, and who she’d hated since he’d proven to not only be a blood-traitor, but a disloyal one at that. He hovered in the dreamscape, behind Potter and Diggory and just to the side of where she was hidden, and he winked over at her._

_“Prissy Cissy, hiding like a naughty kid?” he whispered, grinning._

_“I’m sorry!” she wanted to wail, but couldn’t force herself to move. If Pettigrew hadn’t gone completely mad, then he was holding what remained of her ex-husband’s Lord, with the intent to revive him again._

_“Kill the spare!”_

_The Killing curse collided with the tombstone she’d summoned in front of the Hufflepuff champion, in real life, and he’d ducked at the sight of the chunk of stone flying towards him. This time, she blinked, and Siri was in front of him. Siri was dead, body hovering just above the ground and smirking even in death, and both Potter’s and Diggory’s bodies lay under him. She’d done nothing to stop it._

_The scene flipped and the Dark Lord was in front of her, fully returned in a body twisted horribly by Dark Magic. Cedric and Harry were tied to the gravestone, as they had been in life while the Pettigrew fought her and completed the ceremony, but here they were husks. A cold hand grabbed her chin, and jerked her back to stare into red eyes. Theories about the how and what Dark Magic could do to the body flashed in front of her eyes, unhelpful as the world closed in around her._

_“You think to defy me?” he whispered. Harry’s head slowly creaked towards her, face dull and a chalky grey-brown. ‘Run,’ rigid lips mouthed. ‘Run!’_

_“Crucio!”_

_She screamed. It was all she could do._

 

“Cissa! Narcissa!”

She startled awake. Someone was hovering over her, and she jerked back, curled into a shaking ball until the person’s blurry lines resolved themselves into Kingsley. He was still in the loose robes aurors wore around the office, though his cap was missing, and he’d taken his earring out. He was kneeling in front of her. Her legs felt itchy and uncomfortable, and she realized she was wearing a muggle pencil skirt and their thin, impractical stockings. She was on his couch, and they were in his living room.

Why were they in his living room?

“Do you want to talk about it?” Kingsley asked tentatively.

She shook her head. Behind him, on the coffee table, were two clear cylindrical boxes with steaming plates of pasta. One had an even smaller box with a cupcake inside. They were tied together with a ribbon, deep purple with shining white doves flying from one end to the other. “Riti’s?” she asked.

“Well,” Kingsley shifted uncomfortably, though a smile tugged at his lips. “Since you sounded serious when you said we needed to talk, I thought it might help if I buttered you up a bit.”

The reason she was here came back to her. Tomorrow was going to be her first day back as a consultant after the Tournament, and Kingsley was still acting guilty around her. She’d asked if she could come over to talk, since both their working and romantic relationship was being weighed down by both the events leading up to the Tournament, and those during. She’d even walked to his home, a flat in the middle of muggle London, to give herself time to form what she wanted to say.

She snorted. “It would work better if you hadn’t told me you intended to manipulate me,” she told him.

He opened his mouth to protest, then closed it and shrugged. “It is not my strong suit,” he admitted.

“It _is_ mine, however.” She smiled as she helped him to his feet. “Come up here so we can eat.” She got to her feet as well, and hooked her fingers under the ribbon to grab the boxes as he led her to his tiny kitchen table.

As they ate, Narcissa’s mind wandered. If she’d been told as a child that she would be perfectly content being divorced at over forty and eating barefoot with a man at a worn, muggle-made kitchen table, she would have lamented at losing her mind in adulthood. As an adult, however, there was no place she’d rather be. Even with the strains in their relationship, this was the most comfortable she could remember being in the presence of a partner.

The clink of Kingsley laying his fork down brought her back to reality. “So,” he said, folding his hands in his lap and gaze resting solemly on her. “You wished to talk?”

“Yes,” she nodded, gathering her resolve. Her shoulders and waist felt cold; she’d be much comfortable if Kingsley were holding her. There was the chance that she would stay silent, though, if he did. “Yes. Do you trust me, darling?”

Kingsley blinked. It seemed to take him a moment to realize that this was the conversation she wanted to have, and his eyes widened when he did. “Of course! Why would—there’s no—” He took a deep breath. “Of course I trust you.”

“When Mitch and I came to you,” she began, but Kingsley interrupted.

“Idiocy. I was being an idiot, and it won’t happen again,” he promised, leaning forward and extending his hand towards her. She glared, and cleared her throat. “Ah—my apologies for the interruption. Continue.” He leaned back in his chair. His hand stayed on the table.

“You might realize that now,” Narcissa continued, folding her fingers together to stop herself from taking his hand. “But there was a reason you didn’t trust us. You _didn’t_ trust us in that moment, Kingsley, don’t try to deny it! And I’ve been going over that conversation in my head, and the moment you stopped even trying to consider our argument was when I brought up the information I got from Lucius.” Her former husband had looked awful, and vengeful, when she came, and it had been a short conversation before he’d led half the floor in taunting and jeering at her.

“I…” Kingsley swallowed, and fell silent. The line of his jaw was tense.

“Did you not trust me, with him?” she asked. He grew even more tense, and her heart sank as that gave her the answer. “Kingsley, look at me.” He slowly raised his head, mouth twisted as he met her eyes. “Tell me.”

“I don’t think you’d cheat on me,” he burst out. “Not then, and not now. As I said, I trust you. I just—you were married to him, for twenty years, and I wondered if you didn’t have a…blind spot, in regards to him. It sounds—”

“Reasonable,” Narcissa cut him off. Kingsley quirked an eyebrow at her. She blushed, but defended herself. “I called for this conversation, I get to break my own rules about interruption.”

This got a bark of laughter out of Kingsley, and he finally relaxed. After a moment, he grew serious. “Reasonable, you said?”

She nodded. “I would ask you to trust my judgement in regards to him, in the future, since presently I regard him with nothing more than contempt. But your worries are not…unfounded.” He blinked, and frowned. “I loved him, especially during the first years of our marriage. Even if I didn’t care for him the same by the time of the World Cup, we were still a team, as close as you and any other Auror are, and if Draco hadn’t been hurt I likely would have stayed loyal to him even as the Dark Lord started his reign again. You’d have every right to question my judgement, in that light. But Kingsley, how do you think you fare, in comparison?”

Kingsley’s frown deepened, and he looked horribly confused. “I…I’m aware that you love me,” he said. “Obviously, Lucius and your son Draco take up more space in your heart than I do, since your relationship has lasted longer. Your son will stay that way, of course, and I…I hope that we will come to be a team in the way that you and Lucius were, in the way that I think you want. I’m content now, though, with just knowing you love me.”

Narcissa sighed. Her heart was in her throat, with what she was about to admit. “In the years between our wedding and the time Draco went to Hogwarts for the first time, Lucius and I have only had one disgreement. Lucius wanted him to go to Drumstrang; I did not.” She’d wanted her son close, yes, but she’d also thought the Drumstrang Headmaster was a self-serving coward, with no loyalty to name or family. Any connection Lucius thought he had, she knew would fall through the second Karkaroff was pushed. Dumbledore, even if they’d both agreed he was a Muggle-loving fool, stuck to his convictions and strived to protect Hogwarts as a whole. “When we fought, it was a rancorous battle. We dueled, and refused to listen to each other for months. My own home was a frigid war zone. I won, but only through threatening and stubbornness. Not once did we work together through it. To this day I don’t know why he prefered Drumstrang over our old school, besides connections he might have there.”

“Why are you telling me this?” Kingsley asked slowly.

“To say that,” Narcissa swallowed, and pushed herself to say what she meant. “To say that despite our love not being as…nurtured as mine and Lucius’ was in the beginning, we are already a team in a way he and I never were. You are important to me, Kingsley. Please know this.”

Kingsley blinked, still looking lost. “You consider the argument we had…”

“It should have been as bad as that,” Narcissa said. “I half-expected it to be that bad. But you came to me, and we talked calmly, and not once in these months have I felt you weren’t prepared to listen after the first time.”

“That one time nearly got you and Mitchell killed,” Kingsley said gruffly, and he was tense again.

“Not even Mitch or I accounted for a crazed escaped criminal having the actual Dark Lord on his side,” she told him firmly. “We’ve both already forgiven you, darling.”

She finally reached across the table and took his hand, rubbing her thumb across the back of it until he relaxed again. “Fine,” he said. A smile slowly grew on his face. “Fine!” He suddenly flipped her hand, reaching over to grab her waist with his other hand, and she shrieked as he pulled her around the table into his lap. “We are a team?” he asked, laying a quick peck on her lips before she could answer.

“Yes,” she giggled.

He kissed her again. “We trust each other?”

“Yes,” she said, smiling, and kissed him deeply. She shifted, so she was fully straddling his lap.

He pulled back, eyes nearly black and the inside of his bottom lip pulled to a deep red. “And you love me?”

She nodded, pressing her body closer to his. “And you?” she whispered.

“I love you,” he said, kissing her deeply before pulling back, laying a trail of kisses across her face, down her neck, and further. “Love you, love you, love you…”

\---

Dirt, Harry thought, was the only thing in his life that he could trust right now. He shifted in the flowerbeds below the living room window of Number 4 Privet Drive. Ron and Hermione were both apparently too busy with their summer to write him about what was actually happening in the wizarding world. Draco was off vacationing with Blaise Zabini for the first part of the summer—something about studying the magical flux at the northern lights—and couldn’t get his owls anyway. Cedric Diggory, though he said he believed him and would support him publicly, hadn’t answered a single owl he’d sent.

Not even the muggle news was trustworthy—he’d been kicked out of the living room while Vernon and Petunia while they watched it, since they thought it was suspicious that he was interested in the goings-on of the world. He’d taken to sitting out in the flowerbeds unter the living room window, trying to hear even a hint of anything unusual, but there was nothing.

Draco’s mum, of all people, was the only one who came close to telling him anything.

Narcissa, as she insisted he call her, wouldn’t tell him what she was working on, but at least let him know she was working on _something_ to fight Voldemort, even if covertly. She also told him of how Fudge was reacting, and how she thought the departments were responding to that, and talked a lot of the politics of it in general. He didn’t always understand everything Narcissa talked about—he nearly wrote to ask Hermione if she had any books on magical law and politics, but then remembered he was mad at her, and got angry at both her and Ron all over again—but he had an idea.

The best parts were when she talked about the curses she was studying. The first time she wrote, she told him the paper she’d sent was cursed to melt the skin of anyone who wasn’t the person it was written to, and to respond on the back of it. He’d wrote back eagerly, asking her what other curses she was studying, and if there was anything to fight Voldemort. She’d said no, but she had a few ideas, and from then on each letter had a general description—not enough to get her in trouble, she assured him, after he’d expressed his worry—of the tomes or cursed objects she was reviewing. Her last letter was tucked in his back pocket, since he hadn’t finished writing down the things he wanted to research (In code. He thought she’d appreciate what he’d come up with, and resolved to tell her the next time they talked in person.), and he liked to take it out and imagine jealously what it would be like to work with such things.

A bang broke him out of his thoughts, and he shot up. This turned out not to be a good idea, and he let out a yell of pain as his head cracked against the windowsill.

There was a scramble from inside, and Vernon Dursley leaned out of the window.

“Wha—boy!” He grabbed a fistful of Harry’s hair and pulled him up. “What the ruddy hell are you doing out here?”

“Listening to the news,” he grit out, trying not to struggle. “Like I _told_ you.”

“Again!” Vernon’s face twisted up in a scowl.

“Well, it changes every day,” Harry said blithely, and Vernon shook him.

“Don’t take that impudent tone with me, you little—” His uncle looked over Harry’s shoulder, and choked on his sentence. “Hello, Mrs. Duhigg!” Harry turned in the limited radius Vernon gave him, and they smiled until Mrs. Duhigg was out of sight. Vernon turned back to Harry. “I don’t know what funny business you’re hoping to see, but you won’t get it in my house. Go, boy, and I don’t want to see you back here until dinner.”

He shook him again, and then let go. Harry stumbled to his feet. “Fine,” he groused. “News was boring today, anyway.”

He forcefully walked down the road, but then slowed as he knew he was out of sight from the house. There was another reason he was so hungry for news. The houses of Privet Drive were more stifling than they had ever been, even when he’d come back from his first year at Hogwarts. There was a constant feeling of choking, of itching, whenever he allowed himself to actually stop and think. His thoughts always turned back to the one place he didn’t want them to go in these times, too.

The Triwizard Tournament.

The graveyard.

Voldemort.

Harry had thought he was an alright duelist, after practicing with Hermione and Draco, and later with them and Ron, but Pettigrew had disarmed and bound him easily, and would have killed Cedric if Narcissa hadn’t followed them. Narcissa herself had struggled to fight off Pettigrew, who had Voldemort whispering in his ear and clutching at his skin and robes. Cedric helped for a while, before Voldemort had laughed and blasted them back. He’d been toying with them. Harry had tried to struggle away, but couldn’t stop Pettigrew taking his blood. Couldn’t stop Voldemort from being ressurected. Couldn’t stop the call of Death Eaters. Couldn’t keep Draco’s mum from being tortured into unconsciousness.

He, in possibly the worst showing of a Gryffindor ever, had only been able to let ghosts fight his battles. He could only run, while they helped him, over to where Cedric and Narcissa were bound. He could only grab at their bindings and summon the championship cup.

He sighed, kicking at a pebble in front of him as he walked. Draco’s mum was already unconscious. Cedric was already terrified. What had he done, really?

Another bang, like the one earlier, had him pulling his wand out and pointing it at the figure that had appeared two houses up from him. “Mister Potter!” it gasped, walking quickly towards him. He blinked, and the figure resolved into Narcissa Black, running across the road to him in a heavy looking brocade robe and high heels.

“Mrs.—Narcissa?” he gaped. She stopped a couple feet from him, holding up her hands placatingly. “What are you—how do you know where I live?”

“I don’t,” she said. “I just—I hope you’ll forgive me, Mister Potter, but I’ve placed a few other spells the paper our correspondence is on.” She looked around worriedly. “I imagine Headmaster Dumbledore has the very best protection around you, and I didn’t intend this particular spell for _you_ but more to tell if your mail was captured, and by who.”

“What are you talking about?” Harry demanded. “You’ve been spying on me?”

“No!” Narcissa said, eyes widening. “I merely placed a spell to detect Dark objects in the vicinity of the paper, and a loadstone that allows me to apparate if I feel it necessary, though I wouldn’t know where I’d apparated to.”

Harry blinked, intrigued despite himself. “Detects Dark objects?” he questioned. “Wouldn’t the letter have to count itself, then?”

“A fascinating bit of spellwork to allow for that exception,” she told him. She grabbed his shoulder and started marching him in front of her.“One I am happy to explain to you, once we are back wherever your residence is, since from the signature I thought I’d end up outside Azkaban.”

Harry stumbled, but guided them back towards Privet Drive. Then, his brain processed what she was implying, and he stopped and turned to face her. “The letter detected something? Is Voldemort attacking?”

“Harry!” she snapped, and he turned back around.

“Right, yeah,” he said, and waved for her to follow him. They started walking again. “Definitely something dark, then. My house is this way, though I can’t say you’ll get the warmest welcome. The Dursleys, my mum’s muggle family, don’t take all that well to wizards, and you’re kind of all wizard-ed out. You probably—”

A hair-raising yell interrupted him, and as they turned the corner, Harry’s blood went cold. Darkness engulfed the whole street, and two dementors hovered as boys he recognized from Dudley’s gang ran in the opposite direction. Under them, limp and splayed across the ground, was Dudley.


	2. Chapter 2

_“Expecto Patronum!”_

Harry cries it out instinctively, and hear’s Ms. Black say it a second after him. Only his stag charges towards the dementor over Dudley. He glanced at her. She winced guiltily.

“That has always been a weak point of my spell work,” she admitted, then she narrowed her eyes.

Harry looked back at the dementors. The one over Dudley had fled, and he could see it flying off in the distance. Dudley lay on the ground, moaning faintly in pain. At first, he couldn’t see what she’d spotted. Then, with a jolt, he saw it: the other one in the ditance, circling, slowly trying to come closer. “C’mon,” he whispered, and his stag turned around and began walking towards them.

“Wait,” Ms. Black said, reaching out at grabbing his arm. She glanced at him. “I realize we’ve only met twice, and never in a situation not fraught with danger, but do you trust me, Mister Potter?”

“Uh- yeah, sure,” he said uncertainly.

She nodded sharply, and pointed at the pavement under their feet. “Keep your patronus pacing, but do not make any suddent movements with it,” she warned, and then began muttering. Gold and silver sprouted from the end of her wand, and sunk into the ground. From the initial point, thin lines began weaving themselves outward in tightly woven geometric patterns. He glanced uneasily at the remaining dementor, watching as it hovered above the ground. His heart pounded, and his patronus lowered it’s head and tossed its ears like it was about to charge.

He turned his head back to Ms. Black, about to ask when she’d be done, before she cried out, “Apara Finite!”

Harry and the dementor seemed to feel it at the same time: a wave of intense giddiness washed over him, followed by intense nausea and ringing in his ears. He doubled over, gasping for breath as his body decided whether it was going to laugh or throw up. The waves repeated themselves again, and then a third time, before stopping and leaving Harry cold. A hand grabbed his shoulder, and pushed him back into a standing position. He swayed with the motion, and would have collapsed if not for that hand.

“Mister Potter— _Harry_!”

Slowly, the world came back into focus. Ms. Black was standing in front of him, worry etched on her brow. Behind her shoulder, he saw a tiny black scrap, growing smaller and smaller as the other dementor fleed.

“What was that?” he mumbled. “Professor Lupin said the only defense against a dementor—”

“It wasn’t a defense,” Ms. Black spoke over him, words nearly stumbling over themselves in a way that didn’t fit Harry’s vision of the matriarch from her letters. “It was a very powerful and very illegal dark creature ward of the same variety that they put as the outer parimeter of Azkaban, and only the first part at that. It would need several other things, other patronuses, blood sacrifices—well. Mister Potter, I need you to tell me what magical places you went to since you left Hogwarts.”

“What? Why?” he blinked. His head still felt fuzzy.

“Because someone tethered those—those _things_ to you, and unless you went around a very powerful dark wizard, or to—” She abruptly stopped, frown deepening.

Harry’s stomach sunk. He wondered with a sick flash of guilty anger, whether someone would have noticed something like attracting dementors if they’d actually come to see him once or twice. He shook himself. “I should—Dudley,” he motioned over to his cousin, who hadn’t gotten up. Ms. Black nodded absentmindedly, and he went over to tug one of Dudley’s arms over his shoulder, and haul him to his feet. Ms. Black followed him, glancing uncertainly over Harry’s cousin before waving her wand. The green pallor on Dudley’s face retreated somewhat, but it was apparent he would remain unconscious.

Footsteps sounded on the road a little ways away from them, running closer, and he glanced up. Mrs. Figg was running down the street towards them. He nearly groaned, and turned to Ms. Black to warn her about his batty muggle neighbor, before Mrs. Figg opened her mouth.

“I don’t know what you’re doing to those boys but you stop it right now, Narcissa Malfoy!”

 

It was wholly surreal, Harry reflected, to hear an argument about curses and wards and old wizard families within the confines of Mrs. Figg’s unremarkable cat-infested house.

“—don’t care what you _thought_ you saw, Arabella—”

“—done nothing to warrant your interference, Lady Malfoy—”

“—sensed no protection, not so much as a cat under a disillusionment charm, and it’s Lady _Black_ —”

“—of no concern to someone like you—”

“—my _son_ , a friend of Harry Potter’s, would beg to differ—”

It was like a tennis match. Both women paced opposite sides of the room, getting no closer but keeping the couch Harry and Dudley had slumped on in between them. Ms. Black had her wand out, and it threw out faint sparks as she shouted at Mrs. Figg. Mrs. Figg surprisingly—though not that surprising, since she’d apparently been a squib this entire time—was giving as good as she got. Several of her cats had wandered in to the room to watch. One—Tufty, Harry thought—hopped up on the couch and rested it’s head on his leg, big yellow eyes staring unflinchingly at Ms. Black.

The shouting match was interrupted by Dudley finally coming to and groaning. Both women went silent at the same time, and then glanced at each other. In a complete departure from what Harry had seen the rest of the night, they nodded in total understanding, and Ms. Black went over and lightly clasped Mrs. Figg’s shoulder before leaving the room.

Dudley’s eyes flutter open, and he glances around in confusion. Mrs. Figg rushes over to him with a glass of water. “You had a rough night, from what I hear, sweetheart,” she said, shoving it into his hands and tipping it so he was forced to drink or spill the glass. “How’re you feeling? Never partied like that, I can tell you, but I had friends who—” she huffed, waving her hands to dismiss the thought. Harry thought the motion looked similar to spellwork.

“Not a party,” Dudley mumbled. “Felt cold. Dark.” He turned to Harry. “And then…you were there? Di’you—?”

“I should get you boys something to eat!” Mrs. Figg exclaimed, and ran from the room.

Dudley blinked slowly after her, and then turned back to Harry. “Did you?” he said more clearly. There was no need to clarify what he was asking.

“No,” Harry said. “There was something magical, though, something dark. It somehow got here, and what you felt was it trying to suck out your soul.”

Dudley’s eyes cleared as they widened in horror. He didn’t get a chance to respond before Mrs. Figg rushed back in with an ancient looking platter Harry would bet his entire vault was summoned from Malfoy Manor, piled high with more food than Mrs. Figg could have reasonably prepared in her kitchen in under a minute.

“Here you go!” she said shrilly, and Harry saw the green come back onto Dudley’s face.

“Actually, Mrs. Figg,” Harry said, “I think we’ll head home, if that’s alright.”

She deflated. Dudley got to his feet quickly and nearly sprinted for the door, opening and closing it with a bang. Harry moved to follow, before he heard Ms. Black hiss, “Harry!”

He glanced out the window, and could see the edge of Dudley’s elbow as he waited on the front porch. Harry turned, and Ms. Black strode back into the room to stop in front of him. “Arabella has told me,” she began hesitantly. “That should you stay inside, whatever protections Dumbledore has placed upon you will be impenatrable. Even so, with my using such magics that easily could signal location and with the Trace, he and whatever contacts he has within the auror office feel it proudent to move you.”

“Okay?” he said, biting his lip as he realized it came out as a question.

“I want you to contact me the second you are moved safely,” she continued, face hardening. “It is the done thing, to trust Albus Dumbledore, but he is merely a mortal wizard, like the rest of us, and is fallible.”

Harry frowned, but shrugged. “Sure, yeah,” he said easily.

Ms. Black scowled. “Promise me, Mister Potter,” she pressed.

He blinked, leaning back at her intensity. “Okay!” he replied. “I promise.”

She nodded. “Farewell, then, Mister— Harry.”

He reached out to grasp the door handle, turning it before glancing back at the two women in the room. “I’ll see you both later,” he promised, and opened the door.

~

Harry was reeling by the time he was what Ms. Black would call ‘safe.’ And he couldn’t see how this—a house that disappeared unless Dumbledore himself told you about it—wouldn’t fit her standards of ‘safe.’ A house that held an entire _order_ of people working to fight Voldemort, that Hermione and Ron and Ginny and Fred and George had known about and were staying in, had been for days—

And no one had told him.

He was still fuming silently as Fred and George persuaded them all towards the landing, pulling out…something.

“What are those?” Harry asked against his better judgement. He didn’t want to be curious, he wanted to be angry at all of them.

“Extendable Ears,” Fred said, threading the attached string through the banister.

“Part of the new Weasley’s Wizarding Wheezes product line,” George continued proudly.

They all huddled around the ear, straining hard to hear past the silencing charm put on the door.

“What d’you suppose they’re talking about?” Ron asked.

“Only two options, isn’t there?” Ginny said. She held up one finger. “Harry being attacked by dementors.” Another finger. “A non-Order member, one that used to run with Dark wizards at that, being the one to get to him in time.”

“Wha—Narcissa’s not part of the order?” Harry said incredulously.

“Shh!” the twins and Hermione hissed. A clear voice was starting to come through. Harry’s chest warmed involuntarily when he recognized it as his godfather’s.

“…backwards wet napkins!…completely trustworthy, no matter what you lot think about her _ex_ -husband!…”

Under Sirius’s voice, Harry could hear a slow rumble he thought he recognized. After a moment, he remembered the tall black man that had been a part of his advanced guard—Auror Shacklebolt.

Another voice cut over them, snide and cold, and Harry’s stomach dropped.

“…a _dark_ curse, cast amongst muggles no less…”

 _Snape_? Harry mouthed at Ron, and he shrugged.

“Not up to us, is it?” he whispered back, earning a ‘shush!’ from Hermione.

“Like you’re one to talk, Snivellus!” Sirius snapped, clear through the charm. There was silence from the door for another few minutes, before Fred cursed and started reeling the ear back up.

“Meeting’s adjurned,” he explained, before getting up and apparating on the spot.

“Best try and act like you weren’t eavesdropping,” George told them, before he apparated, too. The rest of them looked at each other, before scrambling away from the banister and into the shadows, trying to look like they’d just happened to choose to hang out there as people started to flow out of the meeting room. Snape swept out quickly, followed by Dumbledore. Harry felt a pang in his chest. Dumbledore hadn’t even bothered to reply to his first message to him, at the start of the summer.

“Hey, you up there!” Tonks called, waving. They all sheepishly waved back. “Molly’s made dinner, and told me to tell you to wash up for it. Remus also said to tell Fred and George to hide the ears—Molly’s none too pleased about them, and might explode if she finds out you tried to eavesdrop again.”

They ended up at the most ornately depressing dining roon table Harry had ever seen. Sirius’ childhood home, apparently, and he couldn’t leave until his name was cleared. He’d made light of it, when Harry asked, though Harry hadn’t pressed for much; Harry knew he’d hate staying at Number Four if he’d thought he’d escaped forever. He’d been reveling in seeing his godfather again so soon, where he could freely hug him and they weren’t in a cave.

“Besides,” Sirius said, piling food onto a fork and shoving it into his mouth. They’d been talking about cleaning the house, of all things, and Sirius had interrupted. He continued talking, despite Professor Lupin rolling his eyes beside him. “That’s not what’s interesting here. Dementors, really, Harry?”

“It’s not as if I called them to me,” Harry said defensively.

“And that’s what we’re worried about. It’s rare for a dementor to spawn outside of Azkaban, since we’ve made it such a powerful hub for them, and we’re trying to figure out—,” Remus started, but Mrs. Weasley ‘harrumph’-ed behind him, and he cut himself off with a cough. “We’re working on how that happened, but that’s classified. Order’s eyes only, sorry, Harry.”

Harry thought of all the information Ms. Black had been able to give him, even being secretive about it, and said deliberately, “Well, whatever caused it, it would’ve been a lot worse if Ms. Black hadn’t been there.”

He felt the room’s tension grow. “We know that, Harry,” Mrs. Weasley finally said. “And we’re thankful, but it’s suspicious to us that she’s been keeping tabs on you without you knowing.”

Sirius scoffed. “We’ve been doing the same thing,” he countered. “It’s overbearing, yeah, but that’s Cissy. That’s _tame_ for our family—besides, if you told her to knock it off, she would.” He turned and said the last bit to Harry, who nodded, though he couldn’t picture telling someone like Narcissa Black to knock anything off. Sirius turned back to the table. “She’s just been more efficient with her spying. Spying she wouldn’t feel the need to do, if she were let in on all that we were doing.”

“No!” Mrs. Weasley said firmly. “I know you think she might have changed enough, but your feelings on your family—”

“What’s _enough_?” Sirius demaned, leaning forward. “She got tortured trying to rescue _my_ godson! Has a git like Snape changed enough for—”

“Snape provides information we—” Mr. Weasley started, speaking levelly, but Sirius barrelled on.

“Narcissa could provide us the _exact_ same information!” he agrued. “More, probably! I know for a fact she’s a damn good Occlumens, and Kingsley can attest to her skill.”

“She is impecable with her cursework in the department,” Kingsley said, and Harry thought he looked supremely uncomfortable with Sirius dragging him in. He watched with silent fascination as the table quickly devolved into a heated fight.

“See? There! She knows her way around Death Eaters, around Dark Curses—”

“A little _too_ well, if you ask me,” Moody growled.

“Alastor,” Kingsley snapped. “Enough.”

“What?” Moody said defensively. “Crouch was the one to meet her, Kingsley, not me. He might have given his approval, and you’ve worked with her, but I’ve never seen hide nor hair of her outside of arresting her husband the first time around.” He sighed. “I’m sorry, lad.”

“And have we considered they’re not still working together?” another woman said from the other end of the table, “Divorce or no, she still could be feeding him information on—” Auror Shacklebolt shoved his chair back, cutting her off.

“And _that_ is quite enough,” he said, his face remained the same, but Harry felt the anger rolling off of him. “Thank you for dinner, Molly, but I fear I must go.”

“Wait,” the woman said, face apologetic, but Molly cut her off.

“Why don’t you bring her over for dinner at the Burrow tomorrow?” Molly asked, though it was more like an order. “We’ll all get to meet her then, for Harry’s birthday, and then we’ll see.”

Shacklebolt froze, but nodded. “I’ll ask her,” he said, and then swept from the room. Harry blinked. He’d forgot his birthday was tomorrow, and he should probably protest more at Mrs. Weasley’s assumption, but was too shocked by the argument. He hoped tomorrow’s dinner went a lot better than today’s.

~

 _‘Much better,_ ’ Harry thought, sighing and relaxing back into the high grass. The setting sun glinted off the leaves of trees, swaying in the gentle wind, and melted through the windows of the Burrow. Everyone had spread across the grass, waiting for Mrs. Weasley to come back with the birthday cake. Fred and George were a bit further away, tossing a quaffle back and forth, and Harry vaguely wondered where Ms. Black and Auror Shacklebolt had gone. The yard was taken up with what seemed like every table the Weasleys had, crammed together and covered with a massive tablecloth.

The multiple tables proved very neccessary, when Harry realized it would need to fit nearly every Weasley, him and Hermione, and several Order members who’d come to wish him ‘happy birthday’ and genuinely meant it. Only one woman, the one who Auror Shacklebolt had argued with earlier, had left after a conversation with Ms. Black. Everyone else had stayed through a lively dinner.

Talk of quidditch and school and work and several other topics ducked and wove around each other, several conversations somehow fitting perfectly together. Most surprisingly, Ms. Black and Mrs. Weasley managed to find common ground, over their love of Celestina Warbeck of all things.Harry had ended up talking to Tonks and Shacklebolt about their jobs as Aurors, Ms. Black coming in like a sharp needle whenever Tonks’ stories got too grandiose, to deflate her ego. Shacklebolt usually sided with Ms. Black, and Tonks stuck her tongue out at both of them. Harry had laughed every time, then felt a pang.

 _So this is how aunts are supposed to act_.

He sighed, smile dimming as he thought back to how the two witches had treated each other. Even though he knew they’d known each other—truly known each other—for less than a year, there was an easy love there. It was the same with the Weasleys, and even with the Grangers, on the rare occasions they ventured into the wizarding world.

Someone plopped down on either side of him, and Harry glanced over at the lanky form on his right, and then to his left.

“You will not _believe_ what we just witnessed, mate,” Ron said, flopping back bonelessly into the grass. Hermione rolled her eyes.

“Stop acting like we caught them—” she made a motion with her hand that Harry thought looked vaguely innuendo-laden, and he sat up on his elbows.

“Who’re you talking about?” he asked. “Mrs. Weasley and—”

Ron groaned. “Don’t even _mention_ the possibility,” he told Harry dramatically. “I’m scarred enough.”

“Oh, stop it,” Hermione said in exasperation, though a smile was tugging at her lips. She turned and saw Harry’s still confused expression. “Kingsley Shacklebolt and Narcissa Malfoy.”

“ _What_?” Harry scrambled into a sitting position.

“They were just cuddling!” Hermione said defensively. “He was lying his head in her lap, and they were playing with the old music box Ron’s dad could never get to work right, and—”

“They _were snogging_ , Hermione,” Ron interrupted, still sounding horrified.

“He leaned up and kissed her when it started playing a love song,” Hermione told Harry, who was still trying to picture the two within two meters of each other, let alone in a relationship.

“Does Draco know?” he found himself asking.

Hermione shrugged. “He suspects his mother is seeing _someone_ —”

“When did you talk to Malfoy?” Ron yelped, and Hermione kept talking over him.

“—but he can’t figure out who,” she finished. “I suppose we should tell him when he gets here, shouldn’t we?”

Harry’s insides squirmed. “Here?” he asked. “He’s coming here?” There was another reason he’d avoided writing Draco. Ever since the blond had told him he liked blokes, Harry had been unable to think of anything else. He’d told him he wouldn’t care, and he _didn’t_ , it just refused to leave his head, along with a confusing tumble of other thoughts he couldn’t untangle. Whatever the thoughts were, he’d hoped to have them sorted by the time he saw his friend again, because he’d end up feeling like a right tit if it turned out he did have a problem with it.

Hermione gave him a weird look. “Of course,” she said. “Didn’t Ms. Black tell you? They finished recording for the Northern lights this morning. He should be here by—”

A faint ‘ _crack_ ’ sounded at the edge of the property. Harry could hear Fred’s exaggerated cry of ‘Draco, my good sir!’ and other, more sedate, greetings as he rushed over. A white-blond head stood above a gathering of red, which parted to make room for him, and—

Oh.

Oh, _fuck_.

Draco smiled at him, and pulled a dumbstruck Harry into a hug. “Happy birthday, scarhead,” he told him, pressing a small green present into Harry’s hands. Harry fumbled before catching the package. Draco hovered over him as he carefully unwrapped it. _Has he always been this tall_? Harry thought. “There’s not much selection up at the observatory,” Draco was saying woriedly. “But I managed to find this, and it should match the model Tonks got you.”

Harry tore open the wrapping paper the rest of the way, and pulled off the lid. It was a small figurine, indeed the perfect size to fit with the model Firebolt Tonks had got him, with a quidditch robe that looked like it contained the whole galaxy.

“Do you like it?” Draco asked.

“Yeah,” Harry said, then swallowed as Draco’s face broke into a wide grin. “Yeah, I love it.”

Draco was beautiful.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> finally.jpg 
> 
> Leave a review if you made it this far!


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> a note on the new chapter estimate: this is supposed to have harry and draco going back, but i realized i haven't updated in a month, so i decided to split the two while i finished the other part. school's fun, but its taking up a lot of time, so i might split more of them to get chapters out quicker (from 3k to about 1.5k). what do y'all think?

“You do realize how hard it is to try and pass an assessment when one does not know what they’re being assessed for?”

Narcissa and Kingsley were out, for a change. Draco had been seen off on the Hogwarts Express earlier that Friday morning, and after the day was through they would have a rare weekend with only each other. They’d met for lunch at what Narcissa thought was ‘their’ coffee shop. It was not a place one usually went for filling foods, but they only had the one hour together that day, and she’d wanted to see him in a place where they could act as more than friends.

“I do, in fact,” Kingsley said, mirth dancing in his eyes. “Alastor was fond of his ‘vigilance quizzes’ when I was in training. I am aware with your frustrations, though, and I wish I could tell you more. I want you to know where I am, and what I am doing, at least.” He picked up the last of a savory quiche, ran it through the rest of its sauce, and popped it into his mouth.

Narcissa sighed. “I just don’t see what could have such a high classification that Scrimegour or Unspeakable Fallbook or _you_ could not grant me access, but Arthur _Weasley_ already is privy to.” She wrinkled her nose.

Kingsley snorted. “You do not fool me, you know—you liked them when you went for Harry Potter’s birthday,” he reasoned.

“I liked _Molly_ Weasley,” Narcissa corrected. “Her husband is still… _taxing_.” He was, even when she did not now automatically sneer at anything muggle. His unbridled enthusiasm for muggle trinkets was even _more_ baffling without the filter of blood supremacy. Kingsley reached over, spearing one of the olives she’d pushed to the side for him on his fork. “I swear, darling, half of the things he found to show me were just him trying to get me to sneer about or disparage all things muggle.”

Kingsley choked on his olive. Narcissa frowned in concern, reaching over to rub his back soothingly as he drank down the last of his water. Her wand buzzed warm in its holster as he set the glass down. “Oh! We must get back to the ministry. I can’t be late for the hearing.”

Kingsley scowled, but slid behind her almost automatically to help her into her cloak. She was wearing one of the rare things that would stand up to both the muggle and wizarding world: a plain dress that could almost pass for muggle design, but was made entirely of dark velvet. It was also perfect for a court hearing about both underage and Dark magic that had been used on Privet Drive.

Nothing should come of it, if the Wizengamot was fair, but they rarely were in Narcissa’s experience. She had let go of the influences she’d had on the bench, deciding to move further into the periphery so no potential fallout would affect Kingsley. Even so, she’d kept an eye on who _did_ have influence, and she was reasonably confident that most sitting were either without those influencing them or those influences bore her no ill will.

“I could still come with you,” Kingsley offered, face continuing to be a thundercloud.

“No,” Narcissa denied him. Her hands went to the clasps of his outer robe over his chest, running her hands over the seams in front of her face and not meeting his eyes. “I don’t want your reputation to suffer for even a moment if Fudge decides he doesn’t want to listen to reason, and enough of the Wizengamot decides to let him have his tantrum.”

“That’s more likely than I’m comfortable with,” Kingsley told her. “You are not infallible, you do realize? You-Know-Who attacked you once, and only you and the young Potter are here to give testimony he was the one to do so.”

“And Fudge is using Diggory’s disappearance to cast as much doubt as possible,” she finished for him. “I know. Would you rather it be Harry in front of the courts?” The last statement about the young man that had been with them, Cedric Diggory, was that his father had sent him to Mind Healers on the continent, but the Daily Prophet had been running stories casting doubt on that, ripping at both Harry and Narcissa’ testimonies and, a few times, going so far as to insinuate that Diggory was the one to attack them.

“It’s worrying,” Kingsley said. His hands dropped to wrap around her waist as she slowly tied the cloak. “And I prefer to be there to help you should something…go wrong.”

Narcissa gave an affected gasp. “Auror Shacklebolt,” she admonished. “Are you offering to help a possible criminal evade arrest?”

His hand spasmed on her waist, but he was steady as he kissed her forehead. “If the criminal bears the last name Black, yes,” he answered. She smiled, turning her head and balancing on her toes so she could kiss him properly.

 

The hearing, as far as healings went, was relatively quick. Fudge and a little toad named Umbridge had tried to bring actual charges, but Narcissa’s wards had undeniably caught the presence of Dementors, and a good two thirds of the court had been stirred up into worried trilling she’d been able to push towards an official investigation. _Good_ , she thought. She was still worried over just _how_ Harry Potter had drawn dementors from Azkaban, and she did not like any of the options available to her.

Naricssa gave a subtle sigh as she sank into the chair across from Aya Clearvault. She’d been surprised by the invitation to tea—the woman was young, a girl really, and from a family that was in the awkward space of being just outside the Twenty-Eight but old enough to have most of their customs. Neither Lucius or any of the other men she knew to be Death Eaters had any dealings with the Clearvaults, but the patriarch was loud enough about purity, and it was rumored that most of their fortune was made in the muggle slave trade.

Rumors that had beguan anew during what had been the only pureblood divorce in the past half century; it had been questionable enough when the man had come back from a trip to Côte d’Ivoire with a wife ten years his senior, but the man had been made a pariah with the public story of multiple curses on name and land from his former wife’s equally known family. She’d decided to keep a polite distance when restructuring her own circle, dealing only with Aya’s estranged mother, the now-renowned cursebreaker Fanta Bronzesworn.

“Long day?” the girl across from her asked tentatively. She nodded. Aya was a pretty girl—long braids of dark hair and crystal-like brown eyes—but timid today, twisting one braid around her fingers and running a nail over the rim of her cup.

“Nothing terribly taxing,” she told her. “Just the minister insisted on bringing up that terrible business back in June when I saw him today, and…” She trailed off, partially for effect and partially to think. It wouldn’t get out that it had been a hearing, since she’d managed to turn the ministry’s righteous anger into embarrassment, but she didn’t want to give a stranger too much.

Fonser, one of her house elves, popped up beside her elbow to fill her cup. “Thank you,” she murmured, mouth twitching in an approximation of a smile. Fonser bowed, and disappeared—likely to the forest. The elf had a fascination with the design of the ward stones, the fourteenth century ones specifically, that she couldn’t explain. She nearly sighed again, but saw Aya watching her, eyes flickering between the space where Fonser had disappeared and her.

“You’re house elves,” Aya began, nail stopping abruptly on the rim of her saucer as she fixed her gaze on Narcissa. “You thank them. Are they free?” Her gaze was an uncomfortable weight.

Narcissa shifted in her seat, neck hot. While her mother wasn’t an English pureblood, Aya would have been raised as one up until the divorce, and the conventions of how they treated other magical creatures had been around longer than the prejudices against muggleborns. She was suddenly deeply aware of the muggle underthings and stockings beneath her dress, her increasingly public outings with her sister, and the earrings she wore—wholly different in design from Kingsley’s, but carved from the same rare stone. Isolated, they were not something noticeable to someone not looking, but painted a damning picture to someone who watched her closely.

“Not exactly,” she stalled, struggling into a stony facade she’d had no need of in her home for over a year. “They’ve been rebound to the land, as they would have been when elves first started appearing on wizarding properties—it frees them from my direct control, it’s true, but it makes running the estate much easier.”

A stretch of the truth—it freed them from any family control completely, and made them equals to her within the bounds of the property both legally and magically. There were only a few who even still deigned to work in the house, and only did so to maintain the magic of the property or out of some loyalty to her her or Draco. She was banking on details of how house elves formerly operated when they’d first appeared being lost under all the information of how they were treated now, and not being particularly interesting for a young modern girl to read up on.

Unexpectedly, Aya smiled at her. “It is true what the old guard are saying then,” she said. “A few whisper you have lost your mind.”

Narcissa opened her mouth to defend herself, but Aya cut her off. “This is good. They whisper, so you still have your power, do not worry. You will help me, though, because you do not hold with them.”

Narcissa blinked. The phrase, “Help with what?” was startled out of her, before she could carefully consider it.

Aya set her cup fully onto the table, and Narcissa’s world tilted with her next sentence. “I wish for your aid; the Dark Lord is trying to Mark my fiancé, and I want you to help me fight him.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> thanks for reading! leave a review if you made it this far!


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm being pulled between several projects at the moment, so I think the chapters are gonna stay at a 1.5k goal for now. (Also, hi! I'm back!)

Platform 9 and 3/4 was just as loud and boisterous as it always was. Hundreds of families running back and forth to get their students on the train on time, scrambling to get forgotten items to them and giving long and tearful goodbyes. Draco and his mother stood off to the side, quiet. Draco was uncomfortably aware how much taller he was then his mother—she only came up to his shoulder now, and he wasn’t even of age yet. She’d started saying things like ‘young man’ and ‘estate inheritance’ at him, and for the life of him he couldn’t think of a way to politely tell her they made him want to curl up into a ball and cry.

His mother tugged one last time at the badge affixed to his robes, making sure the green and silver gleamed. “That’s as good as I can make it, I think,” she murmured. Her eyes seemed entirely too shiny for this being the fifth time she’d sent him off, especially considering he would write her by the end of the night. “Prefect. It’s an excellent accomplishment to be able to show once you finish school.”

Draco shifted uncomfortably. “Sure,” he responded. Before he could continue, the whistle for last call blared. They both jumped, and then carefully didn’t look at each other as they composed themselves. After a moment, Draco glanced down at her. She was in her usual heavy traditional robes, but her wedding ring had long since disappeared. His eyes narrowed. A stone, tiny and teal and polished to gleaming, sat in the middle of the arch of her ear. He wracked his brain, and couldn’t think of a single instance she hadn’t been wearing it for the past two months.

She turned to him, and he forced his face and body to relax, and pulled his mother into a hug. She stiffened—this was a sharp departure from their usual Hogwarts Express routine—but quickly relaxed. “Stay safe?” he asked, and she relaxed further. The waver in his voice wasn’t entirely faked; the nightmares about his mother unconscious and hurt, sprawled on the modified quidditch field, still haunted him.

“Of course, dragon,” she answered, hugging him back. His field of view was partially blocked, with his head pressed on top of hers, but he could clearly see the backing of the jewelry. It was made of a thick, hard, gel-looking substance; the material was something he’d only seen once—on the glasps and backings of Granger’s jewelry for the Yule Ball.

His mother pulled back, and he forced a smile as he stepped back and made for the train. She waved, and he waved back. The smile started to feel especially brittle, and it dropped the second the door closed behind him. The train started pulling away almost immediately.

He whirled around and stalked down the aisle. _What part of the train do the Gryffindors usually hang out in_? He thought to himself, unconsciously settling into a jog. Blaise could help with the sudden realization he’d just had, but Blaise had also told him to politely fuck off for the entirety of the trip, since the hot Durmstrang student they’d been working with that summer was apparently riding to Hogwarts for an exchange program this year.

“Granger, Granger, where’s—Granger!” he yelped, nearly stumbling over the other student in his haste. She was scowling at him. What had he done to earn a scowl? They hadn’t even gotten to school yet. “Did you do something with your hair?”

She blinked, and the scowl was gone momentarily. She touched the base of her neck. “Yes?”

“It looks good! Very…full!” It was twisted in a partial halo around her head, with the excess fluffed into a coily puffed ponytail at the nape of her neck. It did do wonders for her face, but Draco couldn’t pay true attention because of the realization settling in his mind.

“Why are you running in the opposite direction of the Prefects meeting?” Hermione demanded. “We’re supposed to get our rotations assignments for—”

“My mother’s dating a muggle!” he hissed, cutting her off.

Granger blinked, and he used her shock to drag her into the bathroom on the edge of the car they were in and quickly lock the door. Ignoring her spluttering, he began to pace in the limited area. “A _muggle_ , Granger!” he said again, and refused to consciously acknowledge that his voice was an octave higher than it usually was. He stopped, turning to face her. “Do you know what this means?!”

Granger’s eyes narrowed. “No,” she said shortly. “I don’t.”

“Granger! My mother is—”

“A grown woman?” Granger interrupted. “A grown woman who can make her own decisions? A grown woman who’s happy?”

Draco winced at the hard tone in her voice. “Yes!” he hastily agreed. “But that’s not the point!”

Granger huffed. “No, the point is you still being a bigoted—”

“The muggle is in danger!” Draco wailed. This pulled the Gryffindor up short, and Draco pressed on. “He has no idea, too! Mother undoubtably has placed _some_ protection on his house, but people are always more gooey and naive when they’ve just got into a relationship; she’ll trust she’s been secret enough, but even _I_ know she’s seeing someone. Do you think the Order knows?”

She opened her mouth, and closed it again. Draco’s heart sunk, and he buried his head in his hands with a cry. “They don’t!” He jerked his head up so he could look at Granger. “We need to turn this train around!”

She choked. “Draco, I’m sure—” She reached out for him, but he ducked under her arm to go stand by the sink.

“We do!” he insisted. “Or you or Potter need to send off an owl to Dumbledore right now or _something_! We need to go protect him! This is the perfect time to attack, with me going back to Hogwarts and mother seeing me off. She’s all—happy, or whatever, now! She wasn’t after dad got arrested, all stiff upper lip and _weird_! Granger, you _must_ know the danger her beau is in! Even you admit there’s no possible way a muggle could beat a wizard in a fight with no warning, and he’s got none! The only wizard he knows is mother! He probably thinks we’re all _fantastic_ , and who knows what protections he has on his house usually—”

“Probably a lot,” Granger quipped, and Draco saw she was barely suppressing a grin. “Since he’s an Auror.”

Draco blinked. Opened his mouth. Closed it. Cocked his head to the side. “What?” he demanded finally.

Granger snorted. “Auror Kingsley Shacklebolt, specifically,” she said, giggling. “While your speech was very sweet, if a bit condescending, I think you’re mothers—er, _beau_ will be fine.”

“B-but—earrings!” he spluttered. He folded his arms and nodded triumphantly. “Wizards don’t _do_ that weird plas-tick backing muggles do for their jewelry! Don’t even know about them! And mother was wearing a pair with them, and has been the whole summer!”

“Draco,” Granger said slowly. “How did _you_ know about plastic backings for earrings?”

“You told me about them,” he answered immediately.

“And you don’t think any _other_ wizard could be told the same things?” she asked, just as slowly as before. “Told, and curious enough to go find some pretty enough to gift to your mother? Or, heaven forbid, your mother _herself_ go find these earrings?”

Draco immediately shook his head. “No, she doesn’t buy her own jewelry,” he said. “Thinks it’s a waste when she has all the jewelry she inherited to choose from, and I know her entire collection. Father has bought her some, and apparently so has this mystery _muggle_.” He raised his eyebrow pointedly.

Granger blinked. “Well,” she finally said. “Regardless, you’re still wrong. Ron and I spied Auror Shacklebolt and your mum _snogging_ at Harry’s birthday off in a corner. Sorry, we meant to tell you.” Granger did not sound _at all_ sorry. She sounded smug, in fact.

“Huh,” Draco said, thoroughly poleaxed.

“Besides, there’s more important things to tell you,” she said.

Draco waved her off. “The prefect meetings still going on, we can just head back,” he said. “Besides, I’m sure Pans will tell me what I missed.”

Granger hissed impatiently. “No, you idiot,” she said, voice dropping to a whisper. “Blaise told me, before he went off with that exchange student, that he’d been invited to dinner at Nott Castle.” Draco nodded. Blaise had been much more careful of his reputation last year, though how it would fare this year Draco had no idea. Blaise was just as tired of blood politics as he was. “Crabbe and Goyle were there, too, apparently, and before they were served Nott’s father took the three of them off to his study with a plate of food. A-and after, Blaise swears he heard a snake hissing. Draco, we think Voldemort is at Nott’s, and he’s recruiting. Draco?”

Draco was frozen where he stood. Scenarios were racing through his mind: of being invited to this dinner, of other dinners, of meetings with the Dark Lord himself, of those meetings at _Malfoy Manor,_ as would have been likely had his dad not—

Banging on the door interrupted his thoughts, and they both jumped.

“What’re you lot doing in there?” a voice demanded. No older than third year, Draco would say. “If you’re gonna do _stuff_ in there, at least make it less than ten minutes so the rest of us can use the loo, yeah?”

**Author's Note:**

> If you made it this far, I’d really appreciate a review to tell me how you liked it! And you like my writing, check out my other HP fic I posted: [ firestone](https://archiveofourown.org/works/18023267).  
> It's a Regulus Black lives AU, and will also have drarry and kingcissa (though you'll have to wait a bit).


End file.
